


if poetry could tell it backwards

by faerie_wings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Destiny, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Loneliness, POV Outsider, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_wings/pseuds/faerie_wings
Summary: The One moulded by Destiny will continue His Journey.(Or; the Lone Bard travels a long and winding road.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	if poetry could tell it backwards

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Last Post" by Carol Ann Duffy.
> 
> Quotes from "Last Post" by Carol Ann Duffy, "Dulce et Decorum est" by Wilfred Owen, S01E02 "Four Marks" and S01E04 "Of Banquets, Bastards and Burials" of The Witcher by Netflix.

_“If poetry could tell it backwards, then it would,”_ sings the bluebird, high in the sky, plumage blending into the background.

 _“If poetry could tell it backwards, then it would,”_ sings a lone bard, on a lonely road, no one in sight, and his baggage hanging off him like his too-large clothes.

 _“If poetry could tell it backwards…”_ but it can’t. No amount of pleading or begging can make it, no amount of _anything_ can make it rewind. Time doesn’t work like that. 

Poetry doesn’t tell it backwards, and there’s no point in trying to make it, reflects the lone bard on the lonely road. Poetry can only do so much before maudlin ramblings turn to pointless grief and self-pity.

The lone bard on the lonely road needs nothing, and the last thing he wants is someone needing him.

He once wanted,

He once wanted someone to want and need him - not love, love doesn’t matter in a dog-eat-dog world - and maybe, just maybe, come to like him.

The quiet of the night seems unnatural, and the lonely bard is silent, for even his footsteps make no sound, in the quiet desolation left behind.

Life’s one blessing has been granted. 

Life’s one blessing has been granted and there’s no one around to reap the reward.

The lonely bard on the lonely road needs no one (and yet… there he is.)

If poetry could tell it backwards, the lonely bard reflects, then nothing would ever go wrong, not for poets. 

Dulce - No - Decorum - No.

Sweet and Fitting, it is not, to be left with a hole where once was a heart.

Sweet and Fitting, it is not, to be left with one but yourself in a world that is meant to love you.

Sweet and Fitting, is it not?

The bluebird falls silent as the bard starts to sing, for his voice is quiet, and the bluebird wishes to hear Talent.

He sings of heartbreak and of heroics. He sings of destiny and of death. 

He sings of things no bard should know as intimately as the lone bard does.

The bluebird chirps its mournful tune as it tries to comfort this lonely human walking the lonely road.

 _“If poetry could tell it backwards…_ “ what an idealistic dream. What a backwards notion. What a children’s fantasy.

If poetry could tell it backwards, then the White Wolf would long be among family, friends, lovers. If poetry could tell it backwards, then the Lone Bard would long be counted among that number.

The Lone Bard sits and watches as the world spins on. 

Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall.

The Lone Bard sits and waits.

The bluebird watches with bated breath, as her beak breaks into a nervous titter.

The Lone Bard has no family nor friends to speak of. The Lone Bard simply watches and waits.

Destiny once shook her head and sighed as Her White Wolf ran away. 

Destiny once pulled the Lone Bard into a loving embrace, Her will made real in his flesh.

If poetry could tell it backwards, then it would, and Destiny would have no need for a child, and would not have Her Son.

If poetry could tell it backwards, then the world would not exist the way it exists. 

For suffering builds character and the scars make stories.

Stories tell truths long accepted. 

The Lone Bard sits and waits; the bluebird bribing him with her gentle song.

The Lone Bard has no family nor friend to speak of.

 _“If poetry could tell it backwards, then it would,”_ sings the bluebird, seeking comfort in her own words.

Yet soon the lonely road falls silent,

Soon the Lone Bard grows weary, and soon the world stands still as the Lone Bard stops singing.

The Lone Bard stops telling the stories the world whispers in the shadow of its scars.

The Lone Bard was made for the White Wolf, has been made to see the stories in the scars.

 _“If poetry could tell it backwards, then it would,”_ sings the Lone Bard, on a lonely road.

But poetry does not tell it backwards. Poetry does nought but narrate, poetry does nought but explore.

The Lone Bard sighs and stands. The world breaths a sigh of relief.

The One moulded by Destiny will continue His Journey.

Sweet and Fitting, is it not, that the Lone Bard’s journey will lead him to the White Wolf, the Child of Destiny and the Sorceress?

Sweet and Fitting, is it not, that the Sorceress finds her destiny in the Lone Bard?

Sweet and Fitting, is it not, that the White Wolf find his Child through the Lone Bard?

Sweet and Fitting, is it not, that the Lone Bard will stand once more?

The One moulded by Destiny will continue His Journey.

 _“If poetry could truly tell it backwards, then it would,”_ sings the bluebird, high in the sky, plumage blending into the background.

 _“But should it?”_ replies the Lone Bard.

Silence falls.

**Author's Note:**

> Idek, feel free to debate whatever the hell I meant in the comments. 
> 
> (Treat it like it's a poem to analyse in English class lol)


End file.
